


Relative Peace

by anneapocalypse



Series: Inroads [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Celebrations, F/F, Injury, Party, ceasefire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-08
Updated: 2014-10-08
Packaged: 2018-02-20 10:08:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2424836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anneapocalypse/pseuds/anneapocalypse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you are a failed supersoldier, do you just fall back to human again? An introspective piece about Carolina on Chorus and her growing friendship with Kimball.</p><p>Warning for mentions of alcohol abuse and a somewhat graphic description of a knee injury. Brief reference to a past relationship between Carolina and Maine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Relative Peace

**Author's Note:**

> Much of this fic is directly inspired by [epsilongrif's excellent art](http://epsilongrif.tumblr.com/post/98857862385/colorful-soldiers-stop-corruption-you-know-i) (cw: alcohol).
> 
> Kimball’s physical appearance comes from [this wondeful interpretation](http://misses-unicorn.tumblr.com/post/95942138964/i-just-want-kimball-to-kick-felix-into-that) by [misses-unicorn](http://misses-unicorn.tumblr.com). Even more inspiration from [eponymous-rose](http://eponymous-rose.tumblr.com) and her excellent fics [Aftershock](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2350190) and [Fallout](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2367629) about Carolina and Kimball post-war which you should absolutely go read.
> 
> Thanks to my tumblr other half [Larissa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/larissa) for beta reading and also for giving me the idea for Carolina’s first name.
> 
>  **Revisions posted 2/21/15** thanks to some really excellent critique by [doughtier](http://doughtier.tumblr.com). Thanks so much for your thoughtful feedback.
> 
> Comments and concrit are always appreciated. Thanks for reading.

It’s Kimball’s idea that she should change out of armor for the night, and Carolina’s initial response is “Absolutely not.” Her aquamarine shell is as much a part of herself as her red hair, even if one’s as much a cover-up as the other, and since Freelancer, shedding that protection has felt neither necessary nor safe.

Besides, she can’t remember the last time she even owned a set of street clothes.

Kimball points out that everyone else will be in civvies, some of them for the first time in months. “You don’t celebrate in armor,” she says. Carolina wouldn’t know, really. Her last victory, if you could call it that, wasn’t really cause for celebration. She agrees to it for a few hours, though, under the condition that she be given a safe place to lock up her armor. The last thing she needs is to lose her own equipment to pirates.

That safe place is Kimball’s quarters, a little room just off the command center in the heart of the old mining chasm that houses the New Republic base. Carolina doesn’t give a single thought to stripping down in front of the General and it isn’t until after Kimball casually excuses herself that she wonders if she _should_ maybe have given that a thought. Living on the Mother of Invention, with everyone constantly in each other’s space, more or less broke you of all modesty, and old habits die hard. Hell, even Wash knows what she looks like naked. This bothers Epsilon a lot more than it does her.

What do you want, Carolina thinks, shrugging as she wriggles out of the suit, rolling the mesh carefully down her bad leg. We all shared a locker room. It’s not that weird.

_It’s pretty fuckin’ weird, Carolina._

It’s only weird if you _make_ it weird Epsilon.

The only reply is a petulant mutter in her head.

Stop making it weird.

_Yeah whatever. I’m just gonna. I’m just gonna log off and dump my memory cache. Be right back._

Carolina shakes her head and removes the holoemitter from her armor as she packs the plating and the undersuit carefully into Kimball’s footlocker.

She’s prepared to go commando under the jeans but the stack of clothes gathered for her includes a pair of gray briefs, the military standard-issue type, her size and clearly unworn. Makes her raise an eyebrow. Kimball must have thought ahead.

The jeans are a little big in the hips and a little long at the ankles and Carolina has to cuff them, which, god, that takes her back. Pants-shopping was always such a bitch, endless digging for something the right length for her five-foot-six frame that fit at the waist and didn’t pull around her thighs. Having everything custom-fit was just one of the perks of Special Projects. She’s still spoiled.

The sport bra fits passably, not as snug as she’d like but it does the job. The seams are soft from wear, and Carolina finds herself lingering on that thought a little too long before pulling on the white tank top.

The sweatshirt is nice. Her color and comfortably oversized. She shrugs into it, and laces up a pair of Vanessa’s shoes, runners a size too big. Gives herself a once-over. Adequate. Goosebumps rise on the exposed skin of her breastbone, and looking down her own limbs she feels strangely small.

Vanessa greets her out in the command center with a nod and a searching look that Carolina isn’t quite sure how to interpret. Then a smile tugs at the corners her mouth. “You should keep that hoodie. Looks good on you.”

“I—thanks.” That’s probably the right response. Being given things isn’t exactly something she’s used to. Mercifully, the slow groan of the elevator ascending to ground level relieves her of the need to make conversation.

Carolina inhales sharply as they emerge into the open air. So strange. The armor regulates temperature to within a tenth of a degree, uniformly over the whole body, and the contrast of a cool breeze on her exposed skin and the warmth under the sweatshirt is jarring. She unzips the hoodie to about her navel and runs a hand self-consciously through her newly-short hair. Back in Freelancer she used to wear makeup even under the helmet. Been a long time since she had so much as a tube of mascara to her name.

Kimball’s dressed down in dark jeans and a simple button-up top. In her standard issue tan armor trimmed in blue, the General often blends in with her troops, which makes her all the more striking out of uniform. She is dark-eyed, square-jawed, a triplicate of jagged pink scars decorating her light brown skin from left temple to jawbone.  Her close-cropped hair is jet-black, tipped blue at the front where the longer strands curl lazily away from her forehead.

Carolina returns a smile that’s tighter than she intends, her jaw already clenching against the pain as she struggles to keep her gait even. It’s only now she’s realizing how much the armor was supporting her bad knee. She’s been icing it twice a day and has it wrapped up tight under Vanessa’s jeans and she hates to limp in front of people but holy hell does it hurt, a special combination of shooting and grinding pain every time she puts weight on it. She can feel Vanessa slowing to keep pace with her, but Kimball doesn’t bring it up. Mortifying as that is, she has to admit she’s grateful for it.

Night is descending quickly over the rebel camp, the strip of sky visible over the canyon a deepening orange. It’s the first real night of celebration since the cease-fire. Negotiations are underway and will be underway for a long time, Carolina can bet, but so far they’ve managed to keep outbursts of violence isolated and to a minimum. 

She and Wash and the Reds and Blues made their appearances at the Feds’ festivities earlier in the day. Have to appear impartial as much as they can, even if at the end of the day all the Reds and Blues want is to be back together in the weird little family unit they are. Peace talks are a delicate operation, something Carolina doesn’t have much head for frankly and she’s happy to leave the diplomacy to the experts. But if their keeping up appearances will help, then that’s what they’ll do.

Experts may not be the word. Carolina’s not sure Doyle could be considered an expert on anything except perhaps taking dictation and balancing expense accounts, but… she’s pretty sure his heart’s in the right place, and oddly enough that seems to count for something on Chorus.

As for Kimball…

 

It throws Carolina that she and Vanessa are so close to the same age. Though it shouldn’t, considering the shit they’ve both been through. It’s more that Kimball’s accomplishments look conspicuously _legitimate_ next to Carolina’s. General of the New Republic of Chorus, leader of what could arguably be considered at this point a successful revolution. Sounds a lot better than leader of a half-mutinied squad of military test subjects and class A fuck-up.

Vanessa scoffed at the _legitimate_ part. I’m a rebel, she pointed out. Illegitimate by definition.

Carolina had to concede that point.

That was a couple of nights ago, right after the ceasefire. Kimball and Carolina pulled an all-nighter at the hospital waiting for news on Tucker and Wash. Wasn’t much to do in the waiting room beyond talk.

Not used to that. Despite their shared history, she and Wash haven’t had the easiest time opening up to each other. They care about each other, she knows that, but… that history is still pretty raw. There’s an understanding between them, sure, but they don’t _talk_.

Kimball, it seemed, not only wanted to talk but desperately _needed_ to. Carolina didn’t have to do much more than make eye contact and nod, and the General spilled open like a floodgate.

There was a lot of bitter self-castigation in the first hour or so. How could she have trusted Felix. How could she have been such a fool. How many had died under her command because she put her faith in him. Carolina felt that. God, did she ever. She’d heard a lot of people firing reassurances Kimball’s way in the capital that afternoon. A lot of “He’s a professional” (like she wasn’t) and “You can’t blame yourself” (like she could help it).

Carolina didn’t say much as Kimball unloaded, just listened and nodded.

Hour three, Kimball asked her about Freelancer.

Hour five, Carolina told her about CT.

Hour six, Kimball said, “You can call me Vanessa.”

Only when dawn was just bleeding over the skyline, and Grey came out to tell them personally that Wash and Tucker were both stable, did they allow themselves to collapse across the waiting room chairs for a couple hours of sleep.

Kimball bought her a coffee when they woke and offered her a ride back to the camp, but Carolina declined. Downtown Armonia was by no means neutral ground. No telling when some stubborn militant might decide to defy the cease-fire. Someone needed to keep an eye on them both.

 

People stare as Carolina and Kimball approach from the west end of the camp. Simmons does a double-take and Tucker mutters a _Ho-ly shit_ under his breath as they join the crowd.

Thing is, the Reds and Blues have never seen Carolina out of armor. Never even seen her unhelmeted, most of them… no, all of them, come to think of it. Yeah. That was on purpose. It’s a terrible thing but she remembered how it was with Tex, how intimidating she was, that faceless specter in the black helmet, and she needed that terror on her side.

Carolina is very, very aware of how small and human she looks.

She swallows, squares her shoulders, and puts on a smile. Tucker’s still gawking openly, but most of the others are getting over it, returning to their drinks and conversations. Tables have been dragged out from the mess tent to form a kind of crooked semicircle. In the center, there’s a bonfire, tended to by a rebel kid with fiery orange hair. A mountain of food’s been assembled on the central table and that, Carolina thinks, must be part of the Feds’ olive branch while they work out a deal for letting the rebels return to the city. Last she’d heard, Kimball’s people barely had two MREs to rub together. Now there are hotdogs, bags of chips, marshmallows, and several packed coolers stashed under the table.

Wash’s eyes go a little wide when he spots her. He’s out of armor too,  and now it’s Carolina’s turn to try not to stare. Wash was never much of a face time guy even back in Freelancer, and on their last mission together… well, he stayed helmeted as much as she did. He looks tired, with what are probably permanent circles etched under his eyes, a couple of stitches along his right cheekbone and yellowing bruises along his arms. He looks so much _older_ than she remembers him. It was a long time ago, yes, but not _that_ long.

God, Carolina thinks, we’re _old_ , the both of us. Older than we should be. She knows she looks similar: shadowed eyes from poor sleep, a recent bullet-graze half hidden under her bangs, even that premature gray at the temples—she sees it every time her roots start to show. It’s occurred to her that she wouldn’t look anything like her mother anymore even if she went back to her natural color—her mom never went gray—but she’s grown far too comfortable in the red.

“Glad you made it,” Wash says.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” she replies, setting up Epsilon’s holoemitter in the middle of the table. His bright blue form flickers to life. “‘Sup, losers.”

Tucker raises his hands. "I’m sorry, what was that? Winner? Man with the plan? Big fuckin’ hero?"

Wash restrains what looks suspiciously like a smile.

“Good to see you on the mend,” Carolina says.

“Ah, I’m all right.” Wash awkwardly waves off her concern. “How’s the knee?”

“All right. How’s the hero of the hour?”

Wash flashes a genuine grin this time, and the affection in it doesn’t escape her. “See for yourself.”

Tucker glows. Literally. His hair’s been colored a shockingly bright aqua that emits a soft light, reminding her of the bioluminescence of the local algae—which, she soon learns, is precisely the source of the hair color’s glow.

“You let them put radioactive algae in your _hair_?”

“Fuck no! Not from here. It’s just what they put in the dye, man. Sustainably sourced and all that shit. I dunno, that’s what Palomo said. Ask him. Besides, I’m like pretty immune to radiation. Perks of that whole alien genome drift thing. Want a beer?”

Further inquiries draw a gaggle of rebel kids who swear up and down that yes, glowing hair dye made from algae extract is, in fact, a thing on Chorus and no, it’s not the radioactive stuff and apparently it’s all the rage in the Capital and she does not in fact need to run back to the barracks for her Geiger counter.

She turns down the beer. Pain meds, she says, though the truth is she isn’t taking anywhere near the dose Grey recommended. Too much makes her feel bleary, uncontrolled, like her body isn’t quite hers, and this relative peace is far too unstable for her to let her guard down. She needs to be in control if she has to run the speed unit—no, she isn’t supposed to, but if she needs to...

Still, “pain meds” is a far more convenient answer than _I drank myself to blackout levels repeatedly after my alleged death and the very taste of alcohol still makes me feel both physically ill and monstrously shitty about myself so no thanks, I’ll have a Coke._

She notices Wash isn’t drinking, either.

Her knee is still, as Epsilon would put it, total garbage. Wash is far too observant not to have noticed how much she’s favoring that leg, but he too has the tact not to say so in front of the others, something Epsilon could stand to learn.

She was lucky, Grey informed her cheerily when she peered and prodded at Carolina’s knee after the fight. Lucky Felix had been on the ground at an angle where he was unable to twist the blade when it slid in between her menisci because if he _had_ , the doctor explained, the serrated back edge would’ve just shredded the heck out of them! And probably severed her LCL the rest of the way!

“Can you fix it?” Carolina asked through gritted teeth.

“Oh, I can get in there and patch it up. Good as new! Well, not exactly. Actually it’s gonna be pretty far from new. Probably looking at osteoarthritis in your future too, I’m sorry to say. Do what I can, though!”

Yeah, _garbage_ was a pretty good word for it.

Carolina tries to inconspicuously rest her hip against the table to take some weight off the knee. She’ll have to sit down before too long, and she can already feel the humiliation of that burning in her chest. She thinks of the enhancements locked up in Kimball’s quarters, the speed unit she may never be able to use properly again without tearing her leg apart.

Anger swells in her throat, threatening to choke her. Speed was _hers_ , always hers, as much a part of her as her colors. One mistake. One moment of overconfidence and _stupidity_ can lose you everything. She should know that by now. She should have—

Tucker eyeballs her again as he sidles back up with a soda in his hand, and she’s pretty sure it’s not just the dip of her tank top he’s staring at, because there’s a kind of sympathy in his eyes that she doesn’t know what to do with. Makes her feel even smaller. She pulls herself up to full height instinctively, gritting her teeth and forcing a smile as she takes the frosty can. Epsilon, mercifully, is not in her head at the moment to monitor her pain levels and lecture her. “Thanks.”

“Hey, she accepted a drink from me!” Tucker crows in triumph. “I want everyone to witness this.”

Carolina snorts and pops the tab, taking a cold bubbly swig.

“Oh, heyyy, Carolina! Good to see you!”

“Hey there, Donut.” She’s always a little taken aback by Donut’s friendliness. He knows her least of any of the Reds and Blues, and yet he always has something nice to say to her and at first she was suspicious of that. Wash explained that’s just how Donut is, and so far that seems to be the case. He’s just an all-around sweet guy. Something about him always seems to make Simmons uncomfortable, but right now Simmons looks uncharacteristically happy, half-draped over Grif with a smile and a telltale flush over his freckled cheeks.

“Lightweight,” Grif mutters, stealing what’s left of Simmons’ beer.

“Caboose,” Wash says, “are you… trying to drink through your helmet?”

“Church said drinking inside the helmet would be three times more efficient!” Caboose trumpets, splattering foam down his shirt. He is, notably, wearing his distinctive Mark V helmet _without_ the rest of his armor.

A weird sort of flinch passes over Wash’s face before it softens into a smile.

“Let me get you a straw,” Wash says, swapping Caboose’s beer can out for a paper napkin. “And uh, a soda.” He moves off toward the food table, quietly passing the half-full beer to Grif on his way, who takes it without question.

“Epsilon…” Carolina says warningly.

For an an instant, the hologram breaks up in a sheepish sputter of green.

“That’s it,” Tucker says, raising a can. “Bottoms up, asshole.”

“Hey, what are you—you know I can’t—don’t splash it on the emitter, you fuck!”

“CHUG CHUG CHUG,” the Colonel chants from the end of the table.

Epsilon is flickering irately above a fizzling puddle of beer on the table. “Yeah, ha ha, real funny, asshole.”

Tucker just grins.

 

Kimball has her rounds to make and she doesn’t drift back into Carolina’s orbit until later in the night. Things have by no means settled down; for most of the rebels the party’s just getting started. The bonfire dances high and hot, clustered round with people roasting marshmallows and hotdogs on long sticks. Carolina can hear the hiss and snap of firecrackers across the camp.

So many of the rebels are young. University hoodies are everywhere. Glowing, multicolored hairstyles similar to Tucker’s. Couples paired off here and there. She spots Lieutenant Jensen curled up with the sporty girl from Simmons’ squad. Around the other side of the fire, a girl with a guitar and a bright pink afro is singing something Carolina doesn’t recognize but which more than a few of the other Chorus kids seem to know.

Forced to abandon the whole standing around the table business, Carolina’s taken a seat near the fire. Been given a seat, actually. The couple occupying the crate scrambled off it immediately when they saw her, saying it was no problem, they could sit on the ground. She isn’t sure whether they consider her some kind of hero, along with the Reds and Blues, or if they just saw her limping.

One moment, one stupid moment.

She gazes right into the heart of the fire, letting her eyes go in and out of focus. The heat on her face is as strange a thing as the breeze. The way it wavers, inconsistent, easing off as the wind changes, only to flare like a sunspot as a cluster of logs suddenly collapse into charred fragments, sending a rush of sparks up into the dark.

“Room for one more?”

Carolina shifts, making room on the crate. Vanessa sits with care, avoiding her bad leg. The surface isn’t large, and their hips touch when she settles in.

Kimball lets out a long sigh. “It’s good to see everyone celebrating.”

“Yeah.”

“Means they’ve accepted it. That the war’s over.”

 _Ah_. So the party itself is a diplomatic move. A tricky one when the message isn’t quite _We won_. Vanessa’s right—the celebrating means they believe change will happen, long and frustrating as the process may be. They have faith.

“That,” Vanessa says with a short laugh, “or the opportunity to get hammered on base was just too good for everyone to pass up.”

Carolina notices there’s no smell of liquor on the General’s breath.

“They believe in you,” Carolina says.

Kimball gives her a sidelong glance, and she regrets the slight wistfulness she must’ve let slip through. Tonight is Vanessa’s night. Not hers to be dwelling on past failures. She straightens. “You’re a good leader.”

“Mmm.” Vanessa purses her lips. Her eyes, fixed to the fire, look far away, and Carolina knows that deflection. That avoidance of the compliment, neither to accept, nor to reject and face awkward reassurances.

She lets it go, and they sit in silence for a good few minutes, close on the crate, watching the flames. Carolina wonders if Vanessa’s thinking about the hospital too. All the stuff they shared under the buzzing white light in that strange limbo of the waiting room. Would they have been so candid under any other circumstances, if they hadn’t both been so shaken and drained?

All it takes to break is enough exhaustion, she supposes. Another thing she should know by now. Holding and holding it all in tight and then it all tears open at once, your whole self coming apart in pieces. Scraping them back together, burning up with shame, swearing you’ll do better, you won’t break again. You’ll contain your _frustrated outbursts_. You’ll _control your anger._ You’ll _calm down._

Memories push at the perimeter of her consciousness. Unwelcome ones. Thank god Epsilon’s not with her. The presence of an AI makes intrusive thoughts harder to suppress, or at least it always has for her. Opens the synaptic pathways, or something like that. Grey has some theories. A little over Carolina’s head. Interesting, though.

Why’re you making this so hard, she asks herself, coming back to the rhythm of Vanessa’s breathing beside her and the warmth of her presence and the heat from the bonfire on her face. It’s not like you screamed and kicked things across the room. You just _talked_. You just told her things. Not even close to everything. So why do you want that helmet back over your face. Why do you want to bandage your whole self up tighter than your busted knee. Why do you feel so _naked._

Come on, Carolina. You can’t even tell her your name.

Even Maine never used her real name, though he knew it. Names weren’t a big thing for them. Maine hated his anyway. Bad family associations. She could relate.

God, how she misses him, his wordless, comfortable presence. It’s an ache that sits deep in her chest and never really goes away, but one she keeps as buried as she can, especially with Epsilon. Maine was _hers_ and she lost him to an AI and… no. That’s too much. Epsilon can’t have that. Ever.

In spite of the heat, she shivers.

“How are you doing?” Vanessa asks, breaking the silence.

Her brains stalls out for a couple of seconds. A certain space hangs between them.

“I’m asking seriously,” Vanessa adds, walking right into that space, closing the gap. “But you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

“You mean the leg, or…?”

“I mean whatever you want me to mean.”

Carolina smiles wryly. “Putting it in my court, huh?”

“If you want it.”

“Oh for god’s sake.”

They both laugh. Vanessa has a good laugh. Solid. Warm.

“I’m,” says Carolina. She casts a glance off to her right. Judging by the soft blue glow haloing the cluster of heads, the holoemitter hasn’t run out of juice yet. Either that or it’s Tucker’s hair.

“It’s harder around them, isn’t it?”

“It’s. Something like that.”

“You weren’t with them, in the beginning.” Vanessa’s hands are moving in her lap, rubbing the blunt fingernails of one hand absently against the callouses of the other. “When we first recruited them. I thought you were one of the ones Felix had left behind, but he swore up and down you weren’t there. Figured he was lying.” She looks down at her hands for a moment, then back up. “But he admitted to losing the others. You _weren’t_ with them then, were you?”

“Some things came up.”

“The equipment.”

“Right.”

“You’re good at the lone wolf thing.” Carolina flinches, then hopes it didn’t show. Vanessa shifts on the crate, twisting a finger absently in the blue tip of her hair at her temple. “The way you managed to infiltrate Locus’s forces, without any outside intel…”

Carolina shrugs. “I had help.”

Vanessa’s eyes flick off to the side. “Epsilon.”

“Yeah.”

“He’s something else.”

Carolina snorts, not unkindly. “He’s something all right.”

Vanessa chuckles. “You miss working with a team?”

Well. Kimball sure lines that one up like a bullet between the eyes. Carolina swallows, sets her eyes on the fire again. Tries to release the tension in her spine. “Not much of an asset to a team like this.”

“What, the leg? I _know_ you don’t intend to let that put you out of commission.”

She inhales sharply, preparing a retort that never comes out.

“You’re more than that, you know."

" _What if I'm not?_ " she bites out.

“Being the fastest and the strongest doesn’t make you a _more_ worthwhile human being, Carolina.” Vanessa purses her lips, then adds, “That’s how Felix thinks.”

“Wow.”

“It’s the truth.”

They lapse into silence again. Carolina finds herself biting at a stray cuticle. Bad habit she figured the armor had all but broken her of. So much for that.

“You know,” Kimball says thoughtfully, “sometimes troops respect a leader who can show vulnerability. Be human to them.”

If you are a failed supersoldier, do you just fall back to human? Can you ever be that again? Her eyes drift back to the Reds’ and Blues’ table where Wash is laughing at something Tucker’s said. She watches him flinch slightly when the laughter pulls at the stitches below his left eye. Watches Tucker's hand drift to his stomach, the thick layer of bandage still visible beneath his shirt when he moves. She watches the way Wash watches him.

“Maybe so,” she says neutrally.

Vanessa gives her a sidelong glance. Nods. “Well. Give it some thought.”

Carolina nods back, silent, and there’s a part of her that want to say _Call me Mallory_ but who’s she kidding. She’s not ready for that. Not yet.

They won’t be leaving Chorus for a while. Maybe there’ll be time.


End file.
